Brief intro: I was on vacation in Puerto Vallarta for Beef Dip, a week dedicated to the thick boys and their admirers, and was staying a couple blocks away from the local bathhouse. One of those nights, I snuck out at 3am (the bars don't really close over there) and had a few experiences I wanted to share. Little vignettes. Fleeting flirtatious kisses in the dark. Snapshots, but in a lot less than a thousand words.
---
I somehow extract myself from the dark room. My cock is spent. I haven't dropped a load in anyone yet, but came close so many times that the little guy doesn't know what to do anymore. It’s tired of being teased.
As I stumbled out, a towel in hand (I'm not even sure it's my towel, but regardless) I see a mountain of a man in a jock on all fours. He's on the edge of the platform right out side the dark area. He's all man. And huge. It's like you take the average gym guy and magnified him one a half times. Thick, but proportionate and a good foot taller than me. With his high and tight, he's the live form of an obscene caricature version of a Tom of Finland caricature. Yes, an exaggerated caricature of an already exaggerated caricature. He's that one percent of everything that you're amazed that you met in real life.
So I do what anyone would do. I drop to my knees and worship that glorious fuzzy ginger ass in front of me and my dick is insistent that it's gonna cum this time. I spend long minutes tasting him, running my tongue from his balls to the top of his hole. Poking, twirling. Drawing a crowd of men at this point that start encouraging me to go deeper. Another guy, the opposite of the ginger god gets on all fours beside him. This one is darker haired, shorter, tan, wearing a harness. The contrast between the two of them side by side is glorious. Another bloke saddles up and starts eating him out too, but I continue with my guy, broad lapping strokes until he's primed for fucking.
I get up. Eager to get inside him, but there a problem. Unless there's a long runway and a mini-trampoline spring board at the end of it, there's no way I can vault myself onto this giant slab of beef.
The ginger looks back at me with an expressionless face. I can't tell if it's encouragement or impatience, if he wants to continue or if he's sizing me up and wanting to pass. So I weigh my options: either try to wrestle a guy thrice my body size off the platform to the right position so I can fuck or let another guy from the crowd fuck. I got with the latter and motion for the tallest guy to move in for the kill. He's over six feet and the parts will all line up with him. He's a muscular black guy with an impressive cock that I guide to the hole.
As they start fucking, I move over to the harness guy next to him. The rimmer has since moved on and has left him sopping wet. Take one last glance over to the boys next to me to make sure they're having fun. I lock eyes with the other top and then just glide my raging dick in the boy. No extra lube necessary. The previous rimmer was obviously an ass connoisseur.
My cock revels in the sensation. It knows this is the one. The perfect hole that it can unload into as the hole grips the whole shaft with an inviting warmth. Long deep strokes all the way in and all the way out. I want to feel the resistance as my cock invades his channel, that momentary restriction before it yields and invites me in. And as my cock grows that extra length from the velvet touch of his insides, it explores new depths. I hit bottom, hold, and push deeper still. Gyrating my hips to explore the walls. Undulating my body to feel the depths. I use the boy's harness to pull him deeper still and I feel myself pushing through the second wall that makes me deeply moan in contentment while the boy yelps with surprise. I found the spot that I want and I use his harness to destroy it, use that extra leverage to savagely poke at it. a tempo that builds and builds. The switch has flipped and I no longer feel a need to languidly explore the depths of his body but instead feel the need to fire my load immediately. My body becomes focused on the one goal: to breed his cunt deep, shoot my load into the inner recesses so that it gets absorbed and doesn't leak out. With a roar, my dick surges with an extra pulse and releases the pent up load that's been building for hours. My body involuntarily stabs his guts a few extra times to make sure it's buried deep and then I collapse on his back. I let the orgasm wash over me as I convulse and spasm uncontrollably.
Cheek to his back, my eyes regain focus and I'm staring directly at the ginger god. He's sneering at me with disdain. I know what he's thinking: that should have been his load. Meanwhile, the harness kid reaches back and interlaces our fingers with a contented sigh and whispers, "Thank you."
Monday, April 13, 2020
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Night at the Baths: Darkness
Brief intro: I was on vacation in Puerto Vallarta for Beef Dip, a week dedicated to the thick boys and their admirers, and was staying a couple blocks away from the local bathhouse. One of those nights, I snuck out at 3am (the bars don't really close over there) and had a few experiences I wanted to share. Little vignettes. Fleeting flirtatious kisses in the dark. Snapshots, but in a lot less than a thousand words.
---
"Vente."
For a microsecond, I struggle to conjure up collegiate memories to translate Spanish to English to fully understand. I have four languages rattling in my brain including English, none of which I know very well. It's odd but with my parents' native tongue, I go directly from spoken word to comprehension but for the others, they have to take a pitstop to English before my brain absorbs meaning.
That microsecond hesitation is not lost on him and he chuckles and reaches out for my hand. Come. It is such a basic word but honestly, despite being in Mexico, I heard just a spattering of Spanish here so I was caught off guard.
I'm literally contemplating my absurd, disrespectful attitude and expectation as his hand is just dangling there, waiting for me to shit or get off the pot. He has the advantage. He's in the blackout room and I'm standing in the entrance bathed in a dim red light. My eyes haven't adjusted yet and under different circumstances, I'd yell, "Oh no you don't, Pennywise!" Then I'd run for the hills, especially if the only part I can see is his arm. Forget it if he's holding out a red balloon.
But as absurd as it sounds, the disembodied voice beckoning me and mocking me for my hesitation is rather alluring. It's the stream of half naked men that are brushing by, entering or leaving the blackout room. And the occasional moans. And the slurps. And then rhythmic sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Most of the men leaving are drenched in sweat. Some of them don't even bother covering up with their towels, their spent cocks dripping or still proudly erect leading the way out in search of more bodies to conquer, their asses still sloppy from sloppy spit lube and cum. It's a good crowd, a good mix. Svelte figures brush by to enter into the dark depths. Beefy men. Tall and short. Harnesses on some and other shy types sporting briefs.
I take his hand and he leads me into the darkness that swallows us. The darkness that shrouds is immediate, a heavy blanket tucked in. It's the weight of the air of the confined space. Bodies writhing and deep breathing all trapped by the dense black, like a stopper on a chemical beaker trapping the fumes of the sex within, the weighted top of the elixir from desire decanted. Whereas the rest of the bathhouse is rather pedestrian in comparison, the dark is the catalyst that sparks inert bodies into action and the byproduct of this kinetic reaction is that heavy air that hugs me. It's palpable.
With complete, immediate trust, I shuffle in and accept my guide's hand further into the depths. Without them touching me, I can feel bodies all around but I'm expertly navigated through the maze of flesh until he finds a suitable spot. And with just a short pause, I close the gap between us, pull him in a deep embrace and kiss him deep. There's no grace, no subtlety. It's just pure need and lust bleeding onto me from the surrounding energy. We're exactly the same height so the move is easy and natural. Just two magnetized puzzle pieces fitting snugly and electrically bonded.
I feel the warmth of his hand behind my neck spread through me and he pulls me in deeper, closer. My hands roam the wide expanse of his back before using my fingers to press into the muscles that straddle his spine, walking my finger tips up and in, hitting the pressure points that make him break from the kiss and throw his head back in a sigh. I use the moment to devour his neck, kissing, licking, and then chewing on him, as I feel his body give way and go limp in my arms. My tongue tracing the fibers of his sinewy muscles, memorizing the valleys, finding the pulsing arteries and veins in between.
I continue to explore. My nose nuzzles the valley above his collarbone before descending over to the right to breath in his scent from his pits. Then down to where his bath towel is loosely tied around his waist. I vigorously shake my head to bury my nose under the terrycloth and the mere move makes it drop away and expose his rigid inches that spring and bounce in front of my face. One more quick inhale to breathe more of him in and I engulf his cock with my mouth in one swoop. I can feel his foreskin glide with my movements, a pliant sheath that shimmies over his rigidity. I don't spend much time feeling his meat ooze juices before I lap at his balls. My attempts to tongue his taint are frustrated until I grab his hips and spin him around. He naturally braces himself against the wall with two palms as I tongue it and then move up to his hole.
And this is where I lose the guise of will and self-determination. My nose is nestled between two perfect mounds of flesh as I drink in the scents of masculinity and sex. My tongue snakes out and I taste it. Other men. Other men have salivated over this hole, other men have shot their load inside, other men have sweat over him. There are other men. And that taste that jolts that revelation shocks and attracts me. I can't get enough of it. My tongue probes and digs for more. Whereas before we were having a personal conversation with our bodies in the context of others, the others have now pulled me, dominated my senses, amassed me into their collective and I completely surrendered. I suddenly felt the other hands that were there all along, roaming my body, pushing my head deeper into his ass. Intoxicated, I surrendered to the will of the darkness and I am no longer my own.
Pieces and fragments.
I fucked him. I remembered how my balls ached to shoot the moment I hit bottom, but I don't remember fucking him. I sucked other cocks, but I don't remember sucking them. I remember someone shoving into my ass while I was fucking, the searing invasion shooting up my ass and through me, surging my dick deeper into the bottom so that he yelped for me. I remember two mouths on my wired nips and my knees buckling, collapsing my body into the arms of another. I remember not saying a thing but through the collective mind a new language formed so that everyone knew exactly what buttons to push, what knobs to turn so that my cock just constantly dripped precum. More puzzle pieces snapped into place into a shifting canvas of intricate black.
No, it wasn't everyone. It was the one. The darkness. The catalyst that melded as I dissolved into the oceanic lust.
---
"Vente."
For a microsecond, I struggle to conjure up collegiate memories to translate Spanish to English to fully understand. I have four languages rattling in my brain including English, none of which I know very well. It's odd but with my parents' native tongue, I go directly from spoken word to comprehension but for the others, they have to take a pitstop to English before my brain absorbs meaning.
That microsecond hesitation is not lost on him and he chuckles and reaches out for my hand. Come. It is such a basic word but honestly, despite being in Mexico, I heard just a spattering of Spanish here so I was caught off guard.
I'm literally contemplating my absurd, disrespectful attitude and expectation as his hand is just dangling there, waiting for me to shit or get off the pot. He has the advantage. He's in the blackout room and I'm standing in the entrance bathed in a dim red light. My eyes haven't adjusted yet and under different circumstances, I'd yell, "Oh no you don't, Pennywise!" Then I'd run for the hills, especially if the only part I can see is his arm. Forget it if he's holding out a red balloon.
But as absurd as it sounds, the disembodied voice beckoning me and mocking me for my hesitation is rather alluring. It's the stream of half naked men that are brushing by, entering or leaving the blackout room. And the occasional moans. And the slurps. And then rhythmic sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Most of the men leaving are drenched in sweat. Some of them don't even bother covering up with their towels, their spent cocks dripping or still proudly erect leading the way out in search of more bodies to conquer, their asses still sloppy from sloppy spit lube and cum. It's a good crowd, a good mix. Svelte figures brush by to enter into the dark depths. Beefy men. Tall and short. Harnesses on some and other shy types sporting briefs.
I take his hand and he leads me into the darkness that swallows us. The darkness that shrouds is immediate, a heavy blanket tucked in. It's the weight of the air of the confined space. Bodies writhing and deep breathing all trapped by the dense black, like a stopper on a chemical beaker trapping the fumes of the sex within, the weighted top of the elixir from desire decanted. Whereas the rest of the bathhouse is rather pedestrian in comparison, the dark is the catalyst that sparks inert bodies into action and the byproduct of this kinetic reaction is that heavy air that hugs me. It's palpable.
With complete, immediate trust, I shuffle in and accept my guide's hand further into the depths. Without them touching me, I can feel bodies all around but I'm expertly navigated through the maze of flesh until he finds a suitable spot. And with just a short pause, I close the gap between us, pull him in a deep embrace and kiss him deep. There's no grace, no subtlety. It's just pure need and lust bleeding onto me from the surrounding energy. We're exactly the same height so the move is easy and natural. Just two magnetized puzzle pieces fitting snugly and electrically bonded.
I feel the warmth of his hand behind my neck spread through me and he pulls me in deeper, closer. My hands roam the wide expanse of his back before using my fingers to press into the muscles that straddle his spine, walking my finger tips up and in, hitting the pressure points that make him break from the kiss and throw his head back in a sigh. I use the moment to devour his neck, kissing, licking, and then chewing on him, as I feel his body give way and go limp in my arms. My tongue tracing the fibers of his sinewy muscles, memorizing the valleys, finding the pulsing arteries and veins in between.
I continue to explore. My nose nuzzles the valley above his collarbone before descending over to the right to breath in his scent from his pits. Then down to where his bath towel is loosely tied around his waist. I vigorously shake my head to bury my nose under the terrycloth and the mere move makes it drop away and expose his rigid inches that spring and bounce in front of my face. One more quick inhale to breathe more of him in and I engulf his cock with my mouth in one swoop. I can feel his foreskin glide with my movements, a pliant sheath that shimmies over his rigidity. I don't spend much time feeling his meat ooze juices before I lap at his balls. My attempts to tongue his taint are frustrated until I grab his hips and spin him around. He naturally braces himself against the wall with two palms as I tongue it and then move up to his hole.
And this is where I lose the guise of will and self-determination. My nose is nestled between two perfect mounds of flesh as I drink in the scents of masculinity and sex. My tongue snakes out and I taste it. Other men. Other men have salivated over this hole, other men have shot their load inside, other men have sweat over him. There are other men. And that taste that jolts that revelation shocks and attracts me. I can't get enough of it. My tongue probes and digs for more. Whereas before we were having a personal conversation with our bodies in the context of others, the others have now pulled me, dominated my senses, amassed me into their collective and I completely surrendered. I suddenly felt the other hands that were there all along, roaming my body, pushing my head deeper into his ass. Intoxicated, I surrendered to the will of the darkness and I am no longer my own.
Pieces and fragments.
I fucked him. I remembered how my balls ached to shoot the moment I hit bottom, but I don't remember fucking him. I sucked other cocks, but I don't remember sucking them. I remember someone shoving into my ass while I was fucking, the searing invasion shooting up my ass and through me, surging my dick deeper into the bottom so that he yelped for me. I remember two mouths on my wired nips and my knees buckling, collapsing my body into the arms of another. I remember not saying a thing but through the collective mind a new language formed so that everyone knew exactly what buttons to push, what knobs to turn so that my cock just constantly dripped precum. More puzzle pieces snapped into place into a shifting canvas of intricate black.
No, it wasn't everyone. It was the one. The darkness. The catalyst that melded as I dissolved into the oceanic lust.
Thursday, April 9, 2020
Night at the Baths: Masking
Brief intro: I was on vacation in Puerto Vallarta for Beef Dip, a week dedicated to the thick boys and their admirers, and was staying a couple blocks away from the local bathhouse. One of those nights, I snuck out at 3am (the bars don't really close over there) and had a few experiences I wanted to share. Little vignettes. Fleeting flirtatious kisses in the dark. Snapshots, but in a lot less than a thousand words.
Years ago, I worked closely with a graphic designer and he was a master at masking. He had a great eye for compelling images and would take a really busy photograph with tons of elements vying for your eye and attention, plop another canvas on top of it to cover it up entirely, and punch holes to give you little glimpses of the image underneath. You'd marvel at the simplicity of the canvas on top, supple geometric color blocked stencils only to get drawn further into the depths as your eyes tuned into the peekaboo image underneath. It made me think how folks are that way sometimes: a beautifully crafted facade but with windows showing a hint of the complexity underneath. Sometimes, though, it shows a little too much clutter of what's inside.
I'm at Spartacus, the popular bathhouse in Puerto Vallarta and I'm resting my head against some beautifully fuzzy pecs. The sweat on my body starting to cool off on one side while the rest of me starts to stick to him. The heat from our bodies and our previous exertions vaguely secreting glue that seals us together. I'm idly tracing patterns on his furry coat as my fingers dance over the hills and valleys of his abs. The dude is built like an ox. Shaved head, muscular. He's the one you cast in the porn scene of the daddy ranch hand throwing a twink stable boy over his shoulder to go fuck on a bale of hay.
The attraction was mutual and immediate. We have rooms right across from each other and we had just left our rooms at the same time, locked up, turned around and locked eyes. That's all it took. I pushed him against the wall next to his door and were fervently making out in seconds. My hands roamed around I couldn't grip a thing due to muscle under my fingers. Fumbled into the room and from the aggressive tussling from both sides, it became apparent that we both preferred the top bunk. I gave bottoming a go, though, even after my jaw dropped when I saw his thick nine inches. I wanted him bad, but after a few minutes being distracted by the noisy bed, the tightness of my hole, and the sweat from our fumbling, we decided to call it quits. Make no mistake, we fucked. He went deep and I'm sure my ass was a ruined, puffy mess, but you know when you're not going to cum and it's just not working out.
So I'm resting up, waiting for my breathing to even out. My ear is sealed on his chest, idly playing with the fuzz that covers his body, and I can hear his heart thumping as I ask, "So Canada, eh?" I tried to make the question as Canadian as possible but my hearing is all warped from the position I'm in that I can't tell if I was successful.
"Yes. From Montreal. I just got here today," he says, with an additional French accent twist.
"There's so many Canadians here this week!"
"Yes, we are all escaping the winter. I always come this time of year, but not for Beef Dip. It's usually just a coincidence."
I picked up on his intent. He's generally not into bigger, thicker guys. I've always found the body-positive nature of bear events and how they're kinda having a bit of an en vogue moment attracts a really diverse crowd, though.
He felt the need to emphasize his meaning.
"I've gone to the events and parties before," he continues. "But the guys are just so..." And here he scrunches up his face and belts out the next word with such vehemence I'm knocked off his chest. "... ugly!"
His body is absolute beauty. The smile? Adorable. The French-Canadian accent? Sexy as fuck. The chemistry? Amazing! But when I dug further and he dropped that statement, I started analyzing the details under the masking. I immediately reflected on little things I chose to ignore: how he blamed me for having to stop because I was too tight, how controlling he was in a rather privileged way as a top. And this. And that. I had to get off the bed and back up. I just needed to shake off that word because my thoughts started to turn a bit ugly itself. I was starting to spiral down into judgements that may or may not be accurate. Peeked a little too closely into the fine lines and I needed to step back and admire the overlay. Sometimes it's better to just adjust to the wide angle lens and just soak in the beauty of the totality... or at least just admire from afar.
Years ago, I worked closely with a graphic designer and he was a master at masking. He had a great eye for compelling images and would take a really busy photograph with tons of elements vying for your eye and attention, plop another canvas on top of it to cover it up entirely, and punch holes to give you little glimpses of the image underneath. You'd marvel at the simplicity of the canvas on top, supple geometric color blocked stencils only to get drawn further into the depths as your eyes tuned into the peekaboo image underneath. It made me think how folks are that way sometimes: a beautifully crafted facade but with windows showing a hint of the complexity underneath. Sometimes, though, it shows a little too much clutter of what's inside.
I'm at Spartacus, the popular bathhouse in Puerto Vallarta and I'm resting my head against some beautifully fuzzy pecs. The sweat on my body starting to cool off on one side while the rest of me starts to stick to him. The heat from our bodies and our previous exertions vaguely secreting glue that seals us together. I'm idly tracing patterns on his furry coat as my fingers dance over the hills and valleys of his abs. The dude is built like an ox. Shaved head, muscular. He's the one you cast in the porn scene of the daddy ranch hand throwing a twink stable boy over his shoulder to go fuck on a bale of hay.
The attraction was mutual and immediate. We have rooms right across from each other and we had just left our rooms at the same time, locked up, turned around and locked eyes. That's all it took. I pushed him against the wall next to his door and were fervently making out in seconds. My hands roamed around I couldn't grip a thing due to muscle under my fingers. Fumbled into the room and from the aggressive tussling from both sides, it became apparent that we both preferred the top bunk. I gave bottoming a go, though, even after my jaw dropped when I saw his thick nine inches. I wanted him bad, but after a few minutes being distracted by the noisy bed, the tightness of my hole, and the sweat from our fumbling, we decided to call it quits. Make no mistake, we fucked. He went deep and I'm sure my ass was a ruined, puffy mess, but you know when you're not going to cum and it's just not working out.
So I'm resting up, waiting for my breathing to even out. My ear is sealed on his chest, idly playing with the fuzz that covers his body, and I can hear his heart thumping as I ask, "So Canada, eh?" I tried to make the question as Canadian as possible but my hearing is all warped from the position I'm in that I can't tell if I was successful.
"Yes. From Montreal. I just got here today," he says, with an additional French accent twist.
"There's so many Canadians here this week!"
"Yes, we are all escaping the winter. I always come this time of year, but not for Beef Dip. It's usually just a coincidence."
I picked up on his intent. He's generally not into bigger, thicker guys. I've always found the body-positive nature of bear events and how they're kinda having a bit of an en vogue moment attracts a really diverse crowd, though.
He felt the need to emphasize his meaning.
"I've gone to the events and parties before," he continues. "But the guys are just so..." And here he scrunches up his face and belts out the next word with such vehemence I'm knocked off his chest. "... ugly!"
His body is absolute beauty. The smile? Adorable. The French-Canadian accent? Sexy as fuck. The chemistry? Amazing! But when I dug further and he dropped that statement, I started analyzing the details under the masking. I immediately reflected on little things I chose to ignore: how he blamed me for having to stop because I was too tight, how controlling he was in a rather privileged way as a top. And this. And that. I had to get off the bed and back up. I just needed to shake off that word because my thoughts started to turn a bit ugly itself. I was starting to spiral down into judgements that may or may not be accurate. Peeked a little too closely into the fine lines and I needed to step back and admire the overlay. Sometimes it's better to just adjust to the wide angle lens and just soak in the beauty of the totality... or at least just admire from afar.
Thursday, January 9, 2020
The vaults of my mind
Sometimes it feels like I'm extraordinarily sensitive to stimuli. My mind wanders often. Something perceived triggers a memory that pinballs to the next and gets battered around five other memories until I've lost the original launch. No worries as I've racked enough points for a few extra plays and something pulls the trigger to propel a ball to start the cycle anew.
I'm watching Bombshell, totally along for the ride the writer creates in this disdain for the culture at Fox News when I suddenly realize that I've fucked a TV executive in his office while office drones went about their day around us. I wasn't his employee so there wasn't any quid pro quo elements of abuse in powers, no icky use of leverage to subjugate another aside from the profane obscenities in hushed tones that came out of my mouth as I face-fucked the guy. I was trying my hardest to coat my cock with that deep throat slime so I can ease up his fuck chute with raw cock to deliver a pent up load. We were fuck buds that happened to work right across the street from each other so we met up at his office when the mood struck us and the work was light.
Then there was that time I fucked the movie exec in his private office during the Christmas lull. Oh and that time I fucked the fireman in the living quarters of the station in the middle of the day. And the time I lured my fuck bud cop to my apartment while he was still working the beat so that I could suck a load out of him while he was still in uniform. I still remember how I was on my knees getting my face pounded and then reaching out to steady myself only to have my hand land on his holster. My hand recoiled quickly as if I touched hot iron. Oh and then there was the time that "straight" investment banker and I met in the stairwell to blow each other...
What started this chain of thoughts? That's right. Sexual harassment. No, never wielded corporate status to gain sexual favors though I obviously skirted propriety in terms of fucking on the job and at job sites. Honestly, it wasn't even sport fucking, wasn't even trying to get more spaces on the sexual bingo card. Just me connecting with men I liked wherever it may have been.
And that's when the rollercoaster of emotions wash over me as I go from fondly remembering the encounters to reflecting on why they're just distant a memory in my life. One guy took a promotion in New York, one retired, one I lost touch because I had to move, the other withdrew to try to be more "straight". Such great connections now just a fond memory, a memory that is never mentioned aloud but is locked up in the vaults of my mind. That's where it all ends up. It always flows to that negative space between the two flippers of the pinball machine as a ball rolls through, trapped in the inner thought ramps of storage.
That is, until some external stimulus drops a credit to free up and launch the ball. But the game is still self-contained in a controlled space off in the corner that nobody really sees.
I'm watching Bombshell, totally along for the ride the writer creates in this disdain for the culture at Fox News when I suddenly realize that I've fucked a TV executive in his office while office drones went about their day around us. I wasn't his employee so there wasn't any quid pro quo elements of abuse in powers, no icky use of leverage to subjugate another aside from the profane obscenities in hushed tones that came out of my mouth as I face-fucked the guy. I was trying my hardest to coat my cock with that deep throat slime so I can ease up his fuck chute with raw cock to deliver a pent up load. We were fuck buds that happened to work right across the street from each other so we met up at his office when the mood struck us and the work was light.
Then there was that time I fucked the movie exec in his private office during the Christmas lull. Oh and that time I fucked the fireman in the living quarters of the station in the middle of the day. And the time I lured my fuck bud cop to my apartment while he was still working the beat so that I could suck a load out of him while he was still in uniform. I still remember how I was on my knees getting my face pounded and then reaching out to steady myself only to have my hand land on his holster. My hand recoiled quickly as if I touched hot iron. Oh and then there was the time that "straight" investment banker and I met in the stairwell to blow each other...
What started this chain of thoughts? That's right. Sexual harassment. No, never wielded corporate status to gain sexual favors though I obviously skirted propriety in terms of fucking on the job and at job sites. Honestly, it wasn't even sport fucking, wasn't even trying to get more spaces on the sexual bingo card. Just me connecting with men I liked wherever it may have been.
And that's when the rollercoaster of emotions wash over me as I go from fondly remembering the encounters to reflecting on why they're just distant a memory in my life. One guy took a promotion in New York, one retired, one I lost touch because I had to move, the other withdrew to try to be more "straight". Such great connections now just a fond memory, a memory that is never mentioned aloud but is locked up in the vaults of my mind. That's where it all ends up. It always flows to that negative space between the two flippers of the pinball machine as a ball rolls through, trapped in the inner thought ramps of storage.
That is, until some external stimulus drops a credit to free up and launch the ball. But the game is still self-contained in a controlled space off in the corner that nobody really sees.
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